


Binding

by Natasi (SwordDraconis113)



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/F, Light BDSM, domination and submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordDraconis113/pseuds/Natasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erica dreams about a dark room with a single swinging light high above.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Binding

Erica dreams about a dark room with a single swinging light high above. It’s clean, but a thick musk has settled over the area, perfuming the small room until all she can smell is herself.

Franky clasps her shoulders and pushes down. The sound thunders her ears, shuddering from her knees and quaking over the smooth concrete floor. It hurts, it’s meant to, but the pain eventually recedes, leaving only the psychological, biological high shivering over her skin, over her breasts and hips, down her thighs until it drifts away like a lover’s touch reversed.

Erica can twist in the rope bindings. She could pull and squirm, hissing sharp defiant breaths beneath the penetrating gaze, but she wouldn’t free.

She doesn’t _want_ to be free, not from this, from her. No matter how much she glares or how tight her jaw clenches as she fights her bindings, Franky looks down at her with that damned smirk and knowing eyes. She reads every inch of body language, every fight and sees what’s underneath.

“Untie me.”

“No.”

“ _Untie me_.”

“No.”

“Franky-”

“Miss Davidson,” the words mimicked back at her. She has no title here, no hold. All she has to do is say the word. One syllable and the fantasy will end. She’ll wake up and Franky will disappear. But the word will never be spoken, not by her. Not this evening. And Franky knows it like she knows the sky is blue and the universe is near-infinite. 

It seems silly now, comparing this game to the universe. And Erica looks up, expecting Franky to have wormed her way into her head again, to know what she's thinking. But she hasn't.

It should be a relief.

But Erica wants Franky to know what she thinks about. She wants harsh, unheard vulgarity whispered in her ear, to have herself exposed in such a way she can't fully comprehend with this simple fantasy. She wants to fight it, to feel the rope tighten and knot until it burns her skin. She wants to panic and be consumed by the sensation of helplessness and fear with only a cool, mocking laugh hushed against her neck to calm her down.

“You want this.”

“I don’t,” she lies.

Fingers lift, sprawling over her bruises, holding her breath beneath them in warning. She watches the blue eyes, watches them and waits.

Never has she been so vulnerable, open and helpless beneath someone’s touch. Not like this. But it's still not enough.

Franky doesn’t kiss her. But she kneels behind her, forcing Erica to straighten and arch beneath her hold. One hand is tight on the neck, not yet restrictive, while her other splays her fingers out over the breast, feeling the short, unsteady breaths draw in and out as the heart, as blood, pounds loudly beneath her touch.

“Is this what you want Miss Davidson?” Erica shivers at the name. Her organs curl up tighter, heating with the words until she can feel herself burn against the frigid air. “Do you want to be schooled? Nah, that’d be too simple for you, wouldn’t it?” Erica hates how Franky's jaw, how her mouth and tongue don't annouce nor pronounce the words to their softer component. She hates how even her voices is vulgar and horrid, filled with colloquial language slathered with loud-spoken history. 

 _Bogan_.

No. She hates that word even more. She loathes how it compels you to think of Franky as lesser, hides her beneath a a box with dull-minded, ignorant idiots when she's so much more. It's voice and it's language and Erica finds herself lost within herself, surprised by  _how much_ is hidden beneath the layers that are Franky Doyle.

If she'd only speak with full jaw movement and without lashing tongues that lick and curl around her words.

"Erica..."

The laugh, fresh air against her shoulder, curls and rushes over. Goosebumps rise and Erica squirms on her kneels, feeling Franky’s hands clench only briefly against her lungs and throat in warning. She'd drifted in thought, consumed herself away from the presence in front of her and forgotten her place. She wasn't supposed to move without command.

“I didn’t tell you to move.” Franky’s voice comes out as a low, dangerous scold. She won’t be told again. The squrim settles but she gasps against the hand.

Her stomach rolls, a low groan in her voice. She wants to clench and slide against her legs, she wants her thighs to rub friction, her body to press against Franky’s. She wants to feel the anger bruise against her skin. But she doesn’t. Fear flutters like a dying moth inside of her as she knows this could all just melt away.

What if her punishment is nothing, what if Franky pushes her down, spreads her out on the cold concrete and walks away? What if she wakes?

The hand around her throat slips away and Erica almost cries out, almost whimpers, but her tongue bites down and she glares forward, determined to hold control over herself.

Franky wants her to fail as much as she wants to succeed. She won’t let her win, let her take over, not without a fight.

**Author's Note:**

> and...I don't know. I just have been DYING to write for this pairing and suddenly I desired to just GO for it.


End file.
